


Tom Bertram Verses The Supercilious Clergyman

by TheMalhamBird



Category: Mansfield Park - All Media Types, Mansfield Park - Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Family Dynamics, Gen, Post-Canon, Religious Discussion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:29:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25093894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalhamBird/pseuds/TheMalhamBird
Summary: .....Mr. Collins arrived, at the appointed hour and full of ecstasies over the avenue leading up to the house which reminded him, they were told, very much of the avenue leading up to Rosings Park- although Lady Catherine’s trees were somewhat taller, the natural consequence of Rosings having been the work of many more generations than Mansfield Park. Introductions were made, all the appropriate bows and curtsying performed, and as Mrs Norris had remained at her own home in protest of the visitor’s incursion, there was no one likely to be uncivil and provoke an argument once they all moved in to the drawing room and sat down...OR,A little while after the Rushworth Scandal breaks, Edmund Bertram invites a new acquaintance of his- Mr. William Collins- to visit Mansfield Park in the hopes of his enlivening the family, and being a good influence on his brother's newly developing morals.Tom would like to know if it is always immoral to beat someone about the head with their own copy of Fordyce's Sermon, or if it can sometimes count as self defence.
Relationships: Tom Bertram & Edmund Bertram
Comments: 15
Kudos: 60





	Tom Bertram Verses The Supercilious Clergyman

The series of the tragedies that had afflicted the Bertram family during the spring had, by late June, started to lose a little of their sting. Edmund Bertram’s wounded heart had mended enough that he only lamented the loss of Miss Crawford to anyone who might listen once or twice a fortnight. Of Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford, there was no news, but of Julia and Mr. Yates there had, at least, been word that they had reached Scotland and been married, and were now settled quite happily by all accounts on Yates’ estate- Yates had written to Tom on the subject; Tom had shown the letter to his father and received for his pains a lecture on the poor quality of his taste in friends that had lasted a full quarter of an hour and probably would have continued a while longer had not Sir Thomas recollected that his oldest son was only newly able to leave his bed in the morning and not return to it until after dinner, and that Tom’s strength was currently only equal to walking from room to room, or out to the shrubbery in fine weather, with the aid of his cane or somebody’s arm, in order to sit down again. He was out of any danger; his health had been improved beyond all the hopes that they had been able to conjure up in May- but although he was more willing to listen to lectures from his father than he had been before his fall, he was not as yet as able to stand long enough to hear them as he was then. Sir Thomas finished, then, with an awkwardly abrupt supposing that what was done was done: Miss Julia Bertram was become Mrs. Yates, and no amount of scolding her oldest brother could undo the fact.

The Grants were not to return from Bath. This was more for Mrs. Grant’s sake than for Doctor Grant’s, for she could not so easily renounce her brother as Edmund Bertram could two sisters and although she was truly shocked and grieved she had no wish to cease all connection with Henry Crawford entirely, as she felt she must if she were to return to Mansfield Park. Doctor Grant, not quite so attached to the young man as his wife was, would happily have returned to his parish denouncing Mr. Crawford and Mrs. Rushworth both if he had been guaranteed of the resumption of that intimacy with the Bertram Family that provided him with one or two very fine dinners at the Park a week- but as that seemed by no means very likely, the injury done between the two families being so severe as it was, and as he was by no means very inconsiderate of his wife’s feelings and did hold a genuine affection for her, he too preferred to remain in Bath. The curate whom he had arranged to cover his duties in the parish when he had left to go to Bath, before the scandal broke, would remain there indefinitely.

Although it was preferable for Edmund not to have so tangible a reminder of the loss of Mary Crawford as her sister still living at the Parsonage he felt, most keenly, the loss of Doctor Grant’s society. With no sisters remaining, and a brother whom Edmund had long since considered unfit to really engage with in intellectual conversation, Edmund might yet have found solace in the company of Fanny Price. Fanny, however, was much engaged with her sister Susan, and although she was quite as willing to enjoy his company as she had ever been, she could no longer devote to him the whole of her attention. In teaching Susan, in choosing books for her and in guiding her through the ways and habits of Mansfield Park, Fanny too was learning- learning what joys there could be in having an affectionate sister, and in discussions where neither person felt as though they were inferior to the other. Edmund could not- did not- begrudge Fanny her new source of happiness, but he did sometimes feel quite lonely.

It just so happened that whilst in town, Edmund had formed an acquaintance with a fellow clergyman. He had met the Reverend Mr. Collins whilst attending morning service: his father in law, Sir William Lucas, was in town on business and Mr Collins had brought his wife – a plain but nonetheless intelligent seeming woman- up to London in order that the families might spend a week together whilst also allowing Mrs. Collins the opportunity of calling upon an intimate friend of hers who was also in town at that time –a Mrs Darcy, whose husband was the master of a great estate in Derbyshire and, moreover, the nephew of Mr. Collins’ patroness: Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Mr Collins seemed a sensible man, and with such connexions as these Edmund had felt Mr. Collins’ acquaintance to be well worth pursuing. They had met twice more before Edmund had been forced to leave London for Weymouth in order to recover Tom; a slight correspondence between the two gentleman had arisen- but then the news of Maria’s disgrace had become public knowledge and Edmund feared that Mr. Collins would drop his acquaintance. Mr Collins, however (not being fool enough to slight the son of a baronet whose eldest brother was in a precarious state of health and who, in any case, Mr. Collins considered to be something of a kindred spirit who could only benefit from the mentorship of Mr Collins’ own superior experiences in the church) had written, and written most kindly, to condole with Edmund over his family’s troubled circumstances. The correspondence not only continued, but the two gentlemen would now consider themselves to be very good friends. Sir Thomas was no less pleased at this development than his son, for Edmund- in contrast to his brother- seemed to have only one or two relationships that could be better termed friendships than mere acquaintances. When Edmund approached him, therefore, to ask if he might invite Mr. Collins to stay at Mansfield for a week or so for “if nothing else,” Edmund said, “ _Tom_ might benefit from the visit as much as myself- Mr. Collins might get through to him as Doctor Grant and my Uncle Norris before him could not,” Sir Thomas was as willing to grant permission for the invitation to be issued as much for Edmund’s sake as for Tom’s. It ought not to be too long visit, he cautioned: both Tom and Lady Bertram were still in somewhat delicate frames of minds from all the recent upheavals. And of course, it would depend on whether or not Mr Collins’ parish (and noble patron) could spare him, and must take in to consideration that there were some one hundred or so miles between Northamptonshire and Kent- by no means an easy distance to traverse- but Edmund was welcome to invite him, and to work out the details as best pleased himself and his friend- and soon it was settled that Mr. Collins would be coming for ten days in early July. Edmund was delighted, and as what delighted Edmund- with one or I dare say _two_ notable exceptions- also pleased Fanny, and what pleased Fanny Susan was disposed to be pleased by also, and Sir Thomas was glad to see at least one of his children in better spirits, most of the household looked forward to his visit. The three exceptions were Lady Bertram, who had long since grown too indolent to feel anticipation about anything; Mrs Norris, who considered it an outrage to invite a stranger in to the family circle when poor dear Maria was still missing and suffering; and Tom.

Tom Bertram was not a stupid man. He had been, and knew himself to have been, foolish, and thoughtless: he was quite aware of all this and he _had been since before Edmund had needed to come to Weymouth to retrieve him._ When he had fallen ill, he had wanted Mansfield- because he had wanted- needed- to make apologies to his family for his behaviour before it was too late. He just wished that his father and brother could believe those apologies to have been sincere, and not the fear-produced ramblings of a fevered mind. He bore the continuing lectures, sermons, and general moralising he received throughout his recovery with as much patience as possible, knowing that to some extent he deserved it. But the prospect of having the same lectures directed at him by a stranger made him irritable. The same sense of delicacy that had caused his brother to frown when he saw Tom reading a novel of Mrs. Radcliffe’s, or had seen him tease their younger sisters or Fanny, apparently _did not_ preclude the family’s dirty laundry being further aired in public, so long as the audience was a clergyman whom he had scarcely known a month. Tom did not share his cousin Fanny’s unstinting respect for the cloth. His acquaintance with Reverend Norris, with Doctor Grant, and even sometimes with Edmund himself made that quite impossible. He preferred the calm and quiet of an empty church to the force of habit and expectations that filled the pews on a Sunday, and found the idea of a Heavenly Father, who knew everything that you thought as well as everything that you did, even more of a source of discomfort than an earthly father, who knew only what you did and only _that_ if you were stupid enough to do it somewhere where he might see or else hear a report of it. Moreover, Tom still tired easily; the prospect of being required to entertain a visitor exhausted him merely to think on it- and Tom wondered, rather blackly, if this whole affair were not divine retribution for his own choice of friends.

***

Mr. Collins arrived, at the appointed hour and full of ecstasies over the avenue leading up to the house which reminded him, they were told, very much of the avenue leading up to Rosings Park- although Lady Catherine’s trees were somewhat taller, the natural consequence of Rosings having been the work of many more generations than Mansfield Park. Introductions were made, all the appropriate bows and curtsying performed, and as Mrs Norris had remained at her own home in protest of the visitor’s incursion, there was no one likely to be uncivil and provoke an argument once they all moved in to the drawing room and sat down.

Sir Thomas had business to attend to, and so retreated to his study. Lady Bertram sat on her sofa and quickly dozed off despite the creditable appearance she was making of being awake: Tom had learnt the signs early on. On this occasion, however, he could not resent his mother- only envy her: for Mr. Collins, it quickly became clear, was duller than ditch water, which Tom supposed must be why Edmund got on with him. He shot glances at his cousins, every so often, to see how they were taking to the conversation. Fanny seemed politely enthused, even venturing her own opinion from time to time on- Tom had lost the thread of the conversation, but he thought he recognised some snatches of Cowper being quoted. Susan appeared a little strained: when he caught her eye she gave him a pleading look before jerking her hand a little towards her work basket. Tom glanced at it then back at Susan and nodded slightly. One of them ought to be doing something enjoyable, and Susan had taken to the idea of sewing for no purpose beyond the artistry of it with delight. She retrieved her embroidery hoop and started to work. Mr. Collins looked on with approval.

“Embroidery is a most suitable pursuit for any young lady,” he proclaimed. “Mrs Collins is particularly gifted in that area- and I must say that such talent certainly enhances the home, not only because of the practicality of the application, but in producing such little ornaments as might be provide fitting ornamentation for a small abode such as a parsonage.”

Susan smiled politely.

“It has been my intention,” Fanny said somewhat shyly. “To embroider some bible verse or passage, to go in to my room- that is, the east room where I sometimes sit- but I cannot decide which to choose, and it would be such a shame to start the work only to think of something more suitable to begin afterward.”

“Your thoughtfulness does you credit, Miss Price,” Mr. Collins beamed. “My dear Charlotte has made several such samplers. Why, only but lately she completed, for her parlour, a line from Proverbs, chapter 10: ‘in the multitude of words there wanteth not sin, but he that refraineth his lips is wise’.” This quote was proclaimed with an enormous air of importance and grandeur and was followed by an impressed silence- except that Tom, choking on laughter, delved into a coughing fit. He leant forward in his seat to get a glass of wine, but Fanny was there before him, already on her feet and at the table. She brought the glass to him and Tom cleared his throat to try and get his thanks out before taking a long draught. It was more water than wine, he noted, a little disappointed but aware that it was probably for the best.

“It is a pity, sir, that Mrs. Collins was not able to join you,” Tom said, delighted by what he most sincerely hoped had been an intentionally pointed comment the lady had hung in her husband’s house. Mr Collins beamed once more.

“Indeed sir, she is the most excellent of women! And I flatter myself, the very model of what a clergyman’s wife ought to be.”

“Indeed?” Tom took another sip of wine. “Has she any younger sisters?” he glanced at Edmund, who shot him a poisonous glare in return.

“She does indeed, Sir, and several younger brothers.” Mr. Collins said. It was on the tip of Tom’s tongue to remark that Edmund was far too prudish to be interested in searching for a spouse amongst Mrs. Collins’ younger brothers, but recalled his company- the sensibilities of his cousin Fanny and the fact that his mother was still present- and restrained himself. It would only outrage Edmund- probably confuse Mr Collins…

Susan, eyes bent to her embroidery, snorted softly.

***

Three days passed and Tom decided that Mr Collins’ company was definitely divine retribution for his own poor choice of friends.

Another four days, and Tom was not entirely convinced that he was still alive: surely the fever had killed him, and this was hell, or purgatory, a cycle of endless torment and-

“Oh! Tom, I did not expect to find you in the stables.” Tom turned to see Fanny standing in the doorway, looking anxiously at him. “You…you are not intending to ride, are you?” she asked, her expression as suspicious as could make it without appearing accusatory. Tom hid a smile, pleased that Fanny had in recent weeks grown bold enough to make even a vague attempt at challenging one of her cousins- followed swiftly by a dull pang of guilt that he had never taken the trouble to encourage her spirits. He recognized _now_ that the same teasing he had used to show affection with Maria and Julia must have frightened her- knew that he had been grossly unfair about the damn theatre- but the past could not be changed and Tom had made apologies for it already, and though Fanny had denied need of them he would not press them again.

“No, I do not intend to ride,” he said. “I am only come to give Bramble some attention- I do not want him to feel neglected now I am unable to swing myself up in to the saddle. Though Doctor Harris says that I might try, soon, so long as I am properly attended.” He returned to patting Tom’s neck. “He is a good horse, aren’t you Bramble? Yes, you are!” Bramble whickered affectionally, and Tom smiled widely. “What about you?” he asked, turning back to Fanny. “Are you going riding?” He realised as she shook her head that of course, she was not dressed for it, and unlike himself Fanny would never be so bold- so foolish- as to go riding improperly attired.

Fanny blushed. “No, for Edmund’s mare has been unwell- but I came to see her, to make sure she did not feel neglected with no one riding her.”

Tom chuckled. “You need not fear on that account, she has had almost as much attention from doctors as me! …except she has no problem with her legs, and if I were a horse-“ he waved his cane a little. “I would probably be shot.” He chuckled again. Fanny did not, only looked impossibly sad and sorry, and Tom’s laughter died awkwardly in his throat. He coughed. “What do you think of Mr. Collins?” he asked instead, picking the first thing that came to mind that would change the subject.

Fanny brightened instantly. “I like him exceedingly,” she said. “I think it very kind of him to have been condoling with Edmund through your illness and not to have dropped the acquaintance in light of Mrs. Rushworth’s behaviour. Indeed, I think that his coming here at just this time has improved things considerably- not materially, perhaps, but Edmund is so much happier now that he has a friend- a fellow clergyman- here to advise him, and support him with his burdens. Your father leans so heavily on him; it is good that Edmund has someone to lean on in turn.”

Tom wondered whether references to the way that his father relied more on Edmund than himself would ever stop feeling as though he had been punched in the stomach. The worst of it was, coming from Fanny one always knew that she had not intended to be cruel. It was not as though he had not _tried_ \- but even when they were younger Edmund had always had the knack of making himself more acceptable to their father than Tom could ever manage: more serious, more inclined to study, more aware of how to voice a disagreement without seeming to challenge. The last time Tom had tried to discuss the estate with his father, he had been fifteen and in love with William Wilberforce. The argument had ended with Tom’s being thrown out his father’s study as he was told he had not the faintest notion of even half the intricacies of the family’s affairs-

“Tom?”

Tom blinked as the interruption drew him out of his thoughts. Fanny was staring at him with wide eyed concern. “Are you well?” she asked. “Are you tired- do you want me to accompany you back to the house?”

Tom forced himself to smile. “I am fine, thank you Fanny,” he said, “I will leave you to fuss over Annabelle in peace.”

“Annabelle?”

Tom shrugged. “Edmund never remembers to give horses names. He takes after my mother in that regard. He, uh. He mentioned that he might take Mr. Collins over to Thornton Lacy, do you know….?”

“They go tomorrow I believe, for the day entire.”

“Really?” Tom said, brightening considerably. “The entire day? Excellent. Excellent.”

***

The whole forty days of a Biblical flood probably had not held as much rain as came crashing down upon Mansfield, from around half four in the morning when the noise of water hammering upon the window panes woke Tom up from an already fitful night’s sleep, and continued on, and on, and on. There was no prospect of Edmund and Mr. Collins journeying to Thornton Lacey in _this_ ; riding would be folly and a carriage would be half sunk in mud before it had gone an inch through the park. The peace Tom had dreamed of- gone. And to make matters worse, the deluge did not stop the post arriving mid-morning: some business matters for Sir Thomas, a letter for Fanny and Susan from Captain Price, and –

“That is Maria’s hand!” Mrs Norris cried - for curiosity about Mr. Collins, and the general sense she had of being excluded from all the important bustle at Mansfield, had gotten the better of her and under the pretence of being concerned about his lungs had come, ostensibly to nurse Tom himself, but really to be a nuisance to everybody and, Tom thought uncharitably, get dressed up in Lady Bertram’s fine clothes, for Mrs Norris’ own plain ones were soaked through, and that his Aunt envied her sister her position was something of which Tom had long been aware- “That is Maria’s hand, Tom, the letter you have just been given-“

Tom turned it over with trembling fingers.

“Go and give it to my father,” Edmund said sharply.

“It is addressed to me.”

“ _Tom.”_ Edmund warned, glancing toward his friend with an expression that seemed to beg for help. Fanny and Susan sat upon the sofa together, as tense as Tom had ever seen them; Mr Collins likewise sat watching and though his expression was one of polite sympathy, his eyes glittered with greedy curiosity.

“Indeed, you ought,” he said, oily in his presumption. “Forgive me, Mr. Bertram, but in matters such as this, your father will know best what is to be done- and you should consider, too, that your father may not wish you to be in receipt of correspondence from your most unfortunate sister and therefore, you ought not to read the contents unless he sanctions it.”

“Forgive _me,_ Sir,” Tom said coldly. “But I flatter myself I am not wholly insensible of my duty toward my father _or_ my sister. Edmund- if Maria has written to me, it may be that she is too embarrassed or ashamed to write to father-“

“And so she ought to be!”

“-I will therefore do her the courtesy of reading it myself before allowing it to pass before my father’s eyes, _if you will excuse me._ ”

“Quite so!” Mrs Norris cried as Tom struggled to his feet. “What ought to be more fitting, than that Maria should ask for her brother’s intercession-“

“Maria has no right to ask assistance from any of us.” Edmund said sharply. “And frankly, Tom, that both of our fallen sisters seem to pin their hopes of reconciliation on you does not speak well of their opinion on your own character, what immorality you would tolerate, or even collude in—"

Tom was out of the door by this time and had elected not to hear a single one of the words his brother had uttered whilst he had remained in the room. He limped towards the nearest chair that sat in the hall and sank into it, tearing open the letter. His injured leg seemed to throb with pain for every word he read: Maria’s tear-smudged confession that Crawford was gone, that she was left with nothing and nowhere else to go and if he might speak to her father-

Tom closed his eyes. There was not a word of regret or remorse for leaving Rushworth, no hint of sorrow for the suffering her elopement had caused the family. Tom did not blame her, exactly- if he had been pushed in to marrying Rushworth then he probably would have run off with Henry Crawford too- but it seemed that much like himself before her, Maria did not understand how to stand a chance at winning an argument with Sir Thomas either.

***

Dinner was a very subdued affair.

Tom made no appearance. Sir Thomas made his son’s excuses: his leg was paining him, and he was tired and so he had gone to bed. When anyone spoke, it was mainly of the weather; Mr. Collins entertained them all for a while by recounting anecdotes about Lady Catherine de Bourgh; Mrs Norris, not quite daring to glare at Sir Thomas, glared at Fanny instead as though the situation were somehow her fault, and Lady Bertram, who usually said nothing but ate heartily, said nothing and pushed her food around her plate, looking pale. She declared her intention of going to look in on her son the first moment that the meal could conceivably be considered over. The gentlemen remained scarcely longer, as Sir Thomas was not much in the mood for entertaining; he invited Edmund and Mr. Collins to remain as long as they would, but he too wished to look in on Tom before retiring.

Edmund poured himself and Mr. Collins liberal glasses and downed his own in one. “What do you think of novels, Mr Collins?” he asked. Mr Collins shook his head.

“I cannot think them suitable material for anyone- young ladies in particular ought not to be exposed to the deviancies that one risks discovering within the pages- however innocuous they may seem at first- of a novel.”

“Those are my thoughts almost exactly, and those of my father.”

“Sir Thomas is an excellent man; I have been honoured to make his acquaintance.”

“My brother,” Edmund said bitterly. “When we were at school, my brother used to buy my sisters each a novel every term and smuggle them into the house when we returned for the holidays. He knew my father did not approve, and he did it anyway. Sometimes I think he did it _because_ he knew my father disapproved. Plays too- although that was more for his own gratification, I think- plays of which my father would not have approved of. _My father_ did not bring a copy of _Lover’s Vows_ into the library, I am sure: it was all Tom’s doing. He encouraged Maria and Julia in vice and folly because he got away with it himself.”

“I must confess that I have found myself pleased with Mr. Bertram,” Mr. Collins said. “He seems, in this short while I have been acquainted with him, to be a quiet young man. That he still retains an affection for your sister after her disgrace is unfortunate, but not everyone has the fortitude of mind to reconcile themselves so swiftly to the understanding that the death of your poor sister would, for the sake of morality and decency, been preferable…he will come to see the right of it, however, I am sure, given enough time.”

“Perhaps,” Edmund said gloomily. “Whilst he was unwell, I almost certainly believed that a change was upon him. He said things to me, in Weymouth, believing I think that I was Sir Thomas- but I have written to you on this point,” he said, attempting to smile. “Forgive me, I will not try your patience with endless repetitions. Suffice to say- I do believe that you are right, Tom has changed for the better. But my concern, Mr. Collins, is how one ensures that such a change is maintained even when the fear of death is not snapping at his heels, frightening him in to better ways with the looming spectre of the gates of hell?”

“I can claim no expansive experience on the matter,” Mr. Collins said regretfully. “But if you are not inclined to believe your brother's disposition to be naturally bad, then you must trust that with the right encouragement, or chastisement as the case may he will continue on the right path. Forgive me if I say, my dear Edmund, that as admirable as your commitment to Mr Bertram is both as his brother, and a clergyman, this may be an area in which your excellent father is better positioned to regulate his son's behaviour.”

Edmund poured himself another glass of port. “You may be right,” he agreed. “And the example of my sisters- Tom, I believe, considers it to be harsh, but my father has proven that he is not afraid of losing a child in order to maintain the order of the household. He may lose his fear of death for a little while, but the prospect of disinheritance, if he were to slip back into his former ways, must seem a lot more real than it was in the past.” He sighed. “I only wish,” he said, “that he could be persuaded that he owes Maria no sympathy. Julia was foolish- very foolish- but may yet claw back some semblance of respectability. Maria is lost forever.”

“As to your brother’s gaining a better understanding of what sort of behaviour is required of a moral, respectable female whose relationship to one’s self one can be proud to own,” Mr. Collins said. “I may have an idea.”

***

“This is….very kind of you, Mr. Collins.” Tom said, taking the book from the clergyman as cautiously as if he had been handed a viper. He attempted a smile and gazed at the copy of Fordyce’s Sermons For Young Women he was now- for some reason he could not at all fathom- holding. It was breakfast of the morning Mr. Collins was to depart. Lady Bertram and Sir Thomas had not come down, and Tom was wondering why he had not remained upstairs either.

“Oh!” Fanny exclaimed when she understood what the book was. “I admire Reverend Fordyce a great deal. The copy of his works that was here- you remember it Edmund, you introduced me to it- I believe that M- that one of your sisters might have taken it…” she blushed, trailing off in a knot of confusion. Tom ,who knew full well that the last copy of Fordyce to enter in to Mansfield Park had, after being read avidly by Fanny, lived six months untouched on Julia’s bedside cabinet, from whence he himself had pilfered it, cut a hole out of the pages and used it to store letters from schoolfriends he had known his father would not approve of, did not feel that enlightening his cousin on the book’s fate would be very helpful, and resolved to give her this copy as soon as Collins was out of the house.

“I very much hope, Mr. Bertram, that your recovery will continue-“

“Thank you-“

“I mean your moral and spiritual recovery as much as the physical for your brother has related the unhappy circumstances of your fall in full-“

“Has he now?”

“Oh yes, indeed. He has been most grievously worried on your behalf for some time, I believe- but time is now what the Lord has graciously lent to you in ordaining that you not be carried off from this life by the fever that afflicted you, and I hope that you will make the very most of this second chance.”

Tom’s fist clenched beneath the table even as he smiled and his face turned pale with anger at the _nerve_ of this man; anger at Edmund for _bringing him here-_ “As for your two sisters,” Collins continued. “You must reflect that no good can come of your continued association with them, however noble your intentions; for even an elopement which ends in marriage must be considered an indelible stain against respectability and virtue; a union which takes place without the sanctity of a father’s blessing, or even a mother’s-“

Mr. Collins cut off suddenly, leaping up from his chair in alarm. Edmund likewise shot to his feet and Fanny cried out in alarm; Susan swore- and Tom had gone sidewise without warning, slipping off his chair and crumpling in alarm- Edmund called for the footman to send for doctor but Susan had already darted around the table. She was not unused to men passing out and off their perches at the table- her father had often managed it one night in seven, and Mr Bertram was not drunk he had only fainted- was coming round with a flutter of his eyelashes. She helped him sit, telling him to stick his head between his knees if his head still felt funny. Tom shook his head. “Thank you, cousin, I think-“ he moved his legs as though intending to try and get them under him, and grimaced. “I think I had better go back to bed,” he said. “I felt a bit queer when I woke up- Edmund, there’s no need for the doctor to come, I can go back to sleep and try again later. Mr Collins.” Here he finished his acknowledgment that the visitor was to leave them, for he could not truthfully say it had been a pleasure to meet him; nor did he wish him a particularly nice, easy, or safe journey- except to get him far enough away from Mansfield that he could not reasonably turn back. He climbed back to his feet, pulling himself up on the chair, and Susan rose with him, hovering at his elbow. “Do you want help getting upstairs?” Susan asked him. “It would be dreadful if you were to collapse again at the top of them.”

“I do not think that very likely, but if you have finished and would not mind lending me your arm. “ Tom said. He had leant his cane against the empty chair next to him, which belonged to his father by rights; he retrieved it and offered Susan his other arm with an exaggeratedly charming smile. Susan dipped a curtsey in Mr. Collins’ direction.

“If you will excuse me?” she asked.

Mr Collins bowed deeply in return. 

***

Halfway up the stairs, Susan said: “Mr Bertram, forgive me if I am speaking out of turn, but did you by any chance faint on purpose to escape Mr. Collins’ company early?”

“Miss Price,” Tom said, a smile playing around his lips. “Did you offer to accompany me on purpose to achieve the same thing?”

***

Tom’s feint was not wholly to his own advantage: the impact with the ground had jarred his injured leg and it began to hurt again. The deep, throbbing ache was in his mind a worthy penalty to pay to escape any further discourse that his brother’s friend might chose to sprout before he finally left them in peace, however, and his father’s instructions to remain in bed for the rest of the day- for Sir Thomas came to issue the order as soon as he heard that his heir had collapsed at the breakfast table- was no hardship to follow -especially as Sir Thomas’ fear that it was his anxieties over his sisters’ respective situations that had caused Tom’s light-headedness led to the baronet assuring him that the reconciliation Yates and Julia’s letter had expressed a wish for would indeed be sought, and that although he would not countenance Maria’s return to Mansfield Park, Sir Thomas did not yet mean to leave her cut off without any assistance at all. Tom, therefore, spent a fairly pleasant day alternatively dozing off and inching further through _Tristam Shandy_ , his peace undisturbed by any more clergymen until that evening, when Edmund appeared after supper...with Fordyce’s Sermons in his hand.

“Give it to Fanny,” Tom said. “I think she might appreciate it more.”

Edmund frowned. “You ought to read them, Tom. It will be good for you.”

“Good for me?”

“Yes.” Edmund said. “You have not been to Church since your fall-“

“Well, I _was_ barely conscious, or able to leave my bed for the better part of two months, and at present cannot get as far as the shrubbery without being exhausted- nor does Doctor Harris especially want my lungs to be sitting in a freezing Church for at least an hour until he is quite satisfied that a stiff breeze and an open window are not enough to give me a chill.”

“You must feel the lack.”

“I have had you to more than make up for it.”

“Do not try to flatter me-“

“Believe me, that is not flattery. It is not even a compliment.” Tom snapped, and Edmund, taken aback by his tone was silent. “What on earth were you thinking of?” Tom asked, “Bringing him here when everything is still so unsettled? Telling him- I do not even want to know the extent of what you have been telling him-“

“You cannot fault me for wanting a confident,” Edmund argued.

“Why not- you have faulted me for it often enough. And besides- what is wrong with Fanny, is not she usually the one you tell everything?”

“Fanny has been busy with Susan-“

“Fanny would make time for Aunt Norris if she were wanted, she would have certainly made time for you. What you mean is, Fanny is learning to put herself first a little, and you do not like it.”

“Do not speak as if _you_ have ever cared for Fanny’s comfort!” Edmund cried.

“No, and I am ashamed of it!” Tom cried back. “I am ashamed of a very great deal about my conduct, but- give me that-“ he grabbed at the book. Edmund stared at him whilst an approving smile spread across his face, and then handed the Sermons over. Tom took them, drew back his arm, and launched them straight back past his brother’s face towards the wall, where it hit with a bang and fell to the floor with a thud as Edmund jumped out of his skin and several feet backwards. “You do not have the monopoly on righteousness.” Tom said quietly. “You are not the only one capable of forming a moral judgement, and you would be arrogant beyond belief to think, at four and twenty, that the conclusions you have drawn about right and wrong are unassailable perfection. I know my faults, brother. Do you know yours? Have you considered that the suggestion of Mary Crawford’s that you have said so often so disgusted you, that Maria and Mr. Crawford marry, would have prevented at least their continuing to be living in sin with one another? Did it occur to you that our Aunt Price’s marriage was the result of an elopement; that your cousins – before my collapse- were being forced to listen to their mother’s very respectability being called in to question?”

“I-“ Edmund gaped like a cod on a fishmonger’s stall for a few moments. “That was not the intention, you know it was not!”

“And my intention with the theatre,” Tom said simply, “was to put on a play. It appears that whilst I was so occupied everybody else- and you can count yourself included in that number, Edmund- was miring themselves deeper into the intimacies that have led us to our present, sorry circumstances.” He sighed and laid back on his bed, shutting his eyes. “I do not know if I will ever forgive myself for that,” he said quietly. “I do not need you to remind me, over and over, what a mess I have made of my affairs. I am aware. I am trying to untangle myself. And every time that you feel the need to list my sins, I feel as though the knots I have been struggling to undo have been tied even tighter. Let me try to improve myself-and if I want your advice, I will _ask_ for it.”

“…If that is the way you feel.” Edmund said. He quietly went to scoop the book up from the floor, hesitated, then crossed to Tom’s bedside table and placed the volume underneath Tristam Shandy. “I will let you rest, now,” he added, and slipped from the room.

Tom heaved a rather heavy sigh, the faltering relationship between Edmund and himself having long been a weight on his chest. But he drifted back off to sleep with a slight smile on his face nonetheless, for the weight had now eased a little: Edmund, for the first time in a good long while, now seemed at least a little amenable to listening, and not just insistent on being heard.

**Author's Note:**

> The Bible verse that Tom finds it so amusing for Mrs. Collins to have embroidered and hung up in Mr. Collins' Parsonage is taken from the King James Version of the Bible. In much plainer English, it reads: "Where there is much talk there will be no end to sin, but he who keeps his mouth shut does wisely."


End file.
